My mother has been on my mind a lot lately.
Since she died last June, I find it’s been sorta up-and-down: Some weeks I think of her a lot; others, not so much. In truth, I expected that. What’s surprised me isn’t the variability in frequency but the change in kind.
In the first few months after she died, I kept thinking of things I should be doing for her. Telling her about some show I’d seen. Ordering chocolates to be delivered. Forwarding an email joke or putting an interesting photo magazine in the mail. Administering her blog. Emailing her a photograph I’d taken. Reminding her about the curling being on TV. Planning a trip to visit her in Vancouver.
And then, of course, I would pull up short.
As I waited more or less patiently for my subconscious to catch up, I marvelled at how many things I’d done for Mom: the “how many” quantified, however roughly, by all the times I pulled up short.
Now my subconscious has stopped yammering at me to do these little things, and I can hear what’s going on around me. There’s the noise made by grandchildren, growing in wisdom and stature. By our trips to new places. By my weekly blogging. By new hobbies like making videos and (oh my goodness what was I thinking) knitting. It should make for a happy hubbub, shouldn’t it?
And it is happy, but it’s strangely quiet, too: There is a silence at the core.
Until her voice was silenced, who knew that she was the one person I could count on to comment favourably on all the aspects of my life?
As I wait for my subconscious to catch up again, I marvel at how many things Mom did for me.